I worked on a sketch today. I’ve been thinking about this one for awhile. I’m going to turn this into a painting soon.
An old house
I’ve noticed that sometimes when I live in the same house for awhile, several years at least, I stop seeing it. Not just seeing, but experiencing it.
We live in an old house. It has a pretty front porch, enormous windows, high ceilings, detailed moldings. The house has lived much longer than me. Longer than my parents did, and longer than my grandparents. It has had a life of its own, and that life is evidenced by its creaky floors, its cracks, its dungeonous corners of the basement.
We’ve lived here for a number of years, and at first my eyes were drawn to the arches in the hallway every time I passed through. I was disgusted daily by the musty smell of mothballs in the attic, until finally, we removed them. I’d notice the striking beauty of the sunlight and shadows through the front window in the afternoons, especially in the springtime.
Now, I still love the details of the house, but somehow time has softened them. Living in the house has diminished my experience of it. I can no longer smell the mustiness, I can barely hear the creaks when I run down the stairs.
But when we go away on vacation? Returning refreshed from visions of palm trees and crashing waves, or energized from brisk walks through a busy city, I experience the house anew. As soon as I open the door, I smell the dank, old-house smell. I get excited by the sight of the mantle and fireplace in the dining room. I hear the creaks when I walk across the floor, and they feel both familiar and new to me.
The essential
A few weeks ago, while my daughter attended her Sunday school class, I sat in on a meeting with the rabbi on how to make the Passover seder more accessible to your attendees. Most parents were there to learn how to make the seder less boring, more fun, for the kids. The rabbi gave lots of good ideas — toys, games, costumes, decorations. I liked her ideas, but our family always focuses holiday celebrations on the kids, especially when it comes to religious celebrations. It’s our way of repressing the discomfort of facing the question of God and the force of spirituality in our lives. Legitimately, we have a lot of religious conflict around the table, with members coming from different backgrounds, different religious worlds. The older generation has agreed on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy, and for them the seder is just another opportunity to see the grandkids. Giving the kids candy and games, eating a nice dinner, and wiping our hands of the religious side covers our responsibilities without making anyone uncomfortable.
Now, at the meeting, the rabbi brought up an idea that stuck with me. She asked what the matzoh represents. Of course the traditional answer is that is symbolizes the Jews’ escape from slavery in Egypt. But the rabbi took the time to suggest an alternate reading, that our eating of matzoh as Jews is an opportunity to focus on the essential parts of ourselves. A meditation, without ego or the commotion of expectations. What things most make us us? What work do we need to do internally to uncover that essence?
I believe that when you have an existential question, the universe puts answers in your path. Or maybe that the answers are always in front of us, like clues, but you have to ask the right questions to unlock their meanings. This year, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed my matzoh.
Maybe by next year I’ll work up the nerve to share it with the rest of the family.
At the museum
A Georgia O’Keefe. No, not one of her flowers. A wooden cross, black, in the forefront. The New Mexican desert behind it, and a sunset. This is striking. Sitting on a bench, I sketch it. Why am I drawn to that cross? It’s almost morbid. So large and dark that it overtakes the rest of the painting. I can see the nails in the center of it, boring into the wood, holding it all together. Then I notice the lower quadrant of the cross. All the others are smooth and opaque, no brushstrokes, no movement. But that lower part of the cross is fluid. The paint curves downward in long strokes, falling, seeping down toward the vegetation below. It’s as if the wood has turned to water here. Taken as a whole, the cross is overwhelmingly solid, unmovable. Yet when I break it apart, examine one piece at a time, I find this fluidity. The cross is no less permanent because of the waterfall within it, and this duality draws me in and holds me.
This, this is what I want in my life, in our marriage.
Why I’m blogging
It all started five months ago when I realized that I wanted to fuck another man.
First, a word about my marriage: Its earliest chapters began when we were kids, in grade school. There were sleepovers where we slept in each others’ beds. There was groping and whispering, yes, as six-year-olds. We loved each other before we knew what love was.
Separated by our parents’ choice, reunited as college students, Geoff and I felt that we couldn’t interfere with fate. We married at 23, and never doubted our choice. Six happy years passed – we worked, traveled, did our own thing together. Sex was always good, but in a quiet way. Then three kids arrived. Yes, all planned. I wanted to be in the middle of that, to be swamped with motherhood. And the kids did the trick. They took all that we had to give.
Now to the present. I turned 35 this year. I am the most me that I have ever been. I begin to take stock of my life. Where am I going from here? I begin running. I fucking love to run. Me, who has never run anywhere willingly before now. I make Geoff a deal. By the time I am 36 I will be on a path back to work outside the home. I need to show my kids how it’s done.
In January, I get a sinking feeling in bed one night. Geoff is bored. Or I am. I set out to improve our sex life. My hunt for inspiration takes me to the bookshelf, the Victoria’s Secret catalog, and finally, to the internet. There, I find what I hoped for, and it turns out to be a disaster. There I find a blog, a weird and outrageously hot blog, which – just so creepily – seems to be written for me. I know, that’s delusional. But I just could not resist that blog. And I went so far as to email the blogger. And email him again from a secret email address. Oh, it gets worse. I dragged Geoff into it, and we shared a sort of e-tryst with that blogger for several months. I shared pictures, emails, recordings. I loved every minute of it, until I didn’t anymore. I loved, and I didn’t love, the confusion that our interactions brought me, the need for self-reflection, so long missing from my life.
Around the end of March, the interaction began to feel out of control. I wanted to stop, Geoff wanted me to stop, hell, even the blogger wanted me to stop. But I just couldn’t. For some reason, the whole process had brought out my creative side. Ten years after grad school, five years of not working, and I found that I had a lot to say. I started my blog, at first with Geoff. I wanted to write, draw, make art, all the time. How could I give that up? But Geoff would not stand for it. Our marriage counselor wouldn’t stand for it. Even our friends didn’t approve.
So I paid a visit to a well recommended psychiatrist, a previously unimaginable idea for me. That’s a post for another day. It took a lot of courage. It left me with a script for a mood stabilizer and more confused than ever. To find clarity, I am blogging. I am searching for what it means for me to be a sexy mom, a loving wife, a hot smart girl, a nice person who is mean sometimes, a good girl who has a dark side. All at once.
Christi, Somewhat Objectively
Dark wavy brown hair. Â Green eyes. Â Smooth skin. Â Soft lips, and a smile that lights up a room. Â Nice curves, perfectly sized B-cup breasts, and curves just right to grab and pull her in.
Average height, below average weight, and above average intellect. Â Looks good in leggings, great in jeans, hot in a skirt and boots, and unbelievable in a dress and heels. Â Knows what she wants. Â Gets what she wants.
Geoff, objectively
Just below 6 feet tall. Light skin. Stick-straight, short medium brown hair. Blue eyes. 165 lbs. Long limbs, long fingers, long toes. Huge feet. Beautiful, full lips. Nice teeth. Strong arms and chest, but not ripped. Â Jutting hips. Wide cheekbones, large nose, angular face. Strikingly handsome in a tuxedo or anything black.
Oh, and he wears a Stetson.